Background

Meet Gary - a gentleman of thirty, he had some of the most charming pictures on Match.com and my favourite was one of him taken in Venice Beach. Physically, he was exactly my type. Dark, 6ft 2in with fantastic deep green eyes to die for. All this, enhanced by a beautiful Californian tan and a heart-melting smile.

Pre-date

We chatted a little online, during which Gary raised the standard of online dating to another level. His messages were often hilarious and his emails could be wonderfully romantic. Ladies, he was gifted.

I often wondered why he was still single and I even asked him once. He explained:

“Whilst I am willing to have a long-term relationship with a true partner in crime, the women I have dated lately have been somewhat superficial. Or in some cases, they have been too much of a ‘ladette’. I am searching for a deep and substantial relationship where we can be friends and lovers, and share our deepest hopes and fears. I like to be in a committed relationship before having sex, it makes the experience even more magical.”

This was so romantic! I felt like I was being showered with love already. It made me realise how much I missed being romanced à la parisienne.

After three weeks of romantic emails, a few cute virtual bunches of flowers and smart or funny GIFs, I was getting impatient. I had an urgent need to meet him and decided to arrange a call to get to the next level. I couldn’t wait for him to take the lead, I wanted a date!

We had that call, and it lasted two hours! It was one of the most amazing phone dates I have ever had, just as great as Harper’s. But this time, there were no long-distance complications. Gary had no baggage and he was local - a Londoner. I was totally smitten by everything about him, except for his voice. I was expecting that he would have a deep and sensual voice, but he sounded a little like he was being hit in the testicles, crying out loud in the highest pitch he could possibly produce. It was the first time I had dated a man with a voice, which was higher than mine - bless him! This was just a detail after all!

After what felt like a billion calls, we finally arranged to meet in person. Being such a gentleman, Gary wanted to accommodate me by coming to my neighbourhood, so we decided to meet in my local pub in Knightsbridge, The Tattersalls Tavern, which was close enough for me to walk there. We chose Saturday lunchtime.

I was ecstatic; for the first time in my London dating history, I was meeting someone who was exactly what I had always longed for, my ideal in almost every way. Apart from his physical appearance and traditional values (which pleased me hugely), Gary had also shown himself to be romantic, intelligent and a great conversationalist. I just hoped that he wasn’t too good to be true…

The Date

Saturday took so long to arrive!

On the morning of my first date with Gary, I tried on at least ten different dresses looking for the perfect one to wear. I ended up wearing a short pink dress by my designer friend Sam. The dress was very fitted but it had a high neck, so I wasn’t showing any cleavage. I didn’t want to be overly sexy on our first date.

A little after 12.30pm, I pushed open the Tattersall’s front door, looking around as I closed it behind me. It was dead, curiously quiet, at this time of day, empty apart from a big guy propping up the bar. I sat down at a table and asked for a glass of wine. I waited for a few minutes, quite unhappy that Gary was late. Plus, the big guy at corner of the bar had turned around to stare at me and I could see that he had nasty brown teeth. I tried to ignore his stares and look elsewhere, but he was making me very uncomfortable. I was just about to call Gary to hurry him up, when my phone rang.

A huge sense of relief as I saw his name on the display. I accepted the call with a great warm smile that could probably be heard in my voice, “Hello, Gary?”

When he replied, I heard his voice echo, leading me to one conclusion – he was here already. My heart sank as the guy who had been staring at me started to wave. No, no, no, no, no! This couldn’t be him, please!? My hopes were utterly dashed when the big guy proudly (and loudly) called over to me, “Val, it’s me! Gary!”

I picked up my glass of wine and reluctantly walked over to him, desperately thinking of my next move. I couldn’t help but mention, “You don’t look at all like your pictures.” I could not hide the disappointment that I felt.

I must have done a better job that I thought, because Gary didn’t seem to notice. He snickered, “Tell me about it. I don’t even recognise myself! I’ve put on a few pounds since I first started speaking to you. Can you imagine, in just 5 weeks!? I should be in the Guinness Book of World Records!”

I didn’t find it funny… In fact, I was disgusted. Not so much by his physique, but more by the dirty Chelsea FC t-shirt he was wearing, with what I sincerely hoped was a yogurt stain down the front. I wanted to vomit.

Okay, I admit it - I was being un petit peu shallow. Okay, very shallow. But it didn’t change the way I felt; I would never find him attractive and didn’t see the point in pretending for even a few minutes.

Gary offered to buy me another drink and I explained as politely as I could, “Sorry my dear, but this isn’t going to work.”

He yelled, furious: “You’re like all the others. You’re so superficial! We had a connection and now you’re ignoring it just because I’m a bit overweight.”

“Gary, I am more upset because you lied to me.” I spoke courteously and quietly as I continued, “I’d rather us just be friends.”

I left quickly, horrified by the ordeal and with Gary and most of the pub’s staff staring at me. I was going to get a reputation at this rate. Never again would I plan a first date at one of my locals.

Once again, I felt betrayed and I found myself questioning the whole online dating experience. Whilst it had seemed fun at first - the possibility of dozens of handsome, intelligent single men just waiting to romance me - it was now becoming more and more disappointing, with each date being worse than the last. The online world seemed to be a place for some of the worst men on the planet.

Where are the real gentlemen? I wondered miserably. What was I doing wrong?

Post-date

Of course, I wasn’t willing to see Gary again. Not only was he a liar, but he was also a rather disgusting one who couldn’t even dress for a date properly.

A few days later, however, he apologised to me via text, and we started speaking again. It was fun, friendly, light-hearted and honest, because I knew exactly to whom I was speaking to. It wasn’t a secret anymore. But after a while, Gary started to call me a little bit too much. I grew annoyed with it after a while, so I stopped taking his calls.

Around three weeks later, during one of my chillaxing weekends where I was busy baking a pineapple cake, my eyes were drawn to something outside my front window. I recognised a familiar t-shirt through the glass. Intrigued, I walked over to the window to peer out. I started to get a bad feeling, but couldn’t put my finger on the reason…then it clicked - it was a Chelsea FC t-shirt. Oh no!!! Gary was here, he had found my home address. Shit!!

Two seconds later, he buzzed at my door. There was no way that I was letting him in. I beat back panic as one clear thought raced through my head - how does he know where I live?? Thank God for intercoms! I could make as much noise as I wanted without him knowing that I was at home.

Gary buzzed again, waiting for a long time for an answer. I didn’t think he was dangerous or capable of anything that would harm me, but he seriously started to scare me at this point.

Plus, Gary was still wearing that same t-shirt and I could see, even from my hiding spot, that the same stain was still there! Eurgh! I had to get rid of him for good.

Dear God, please help me with this stalker!

The next day, I called Gary for the first time in nearly a month. Obviously, I didn’t mention his little visit. I had pretended not to be home and I had no intention of admitting the truth as to why I had not answered. I would not play the part of prey. Besides, he had had no qualms about lying to me.

The call didn’t go as planned. I had barely said “Hello” when he rushed into a passionate speech about how he kept thinking about me and my “sexy dress” (and I had tried my very best not to be sexualised). He said that he was in love with me and that we couldn’t just be friends.

That was all I could listen to. I interrupted him quite harshly, "I'm really sorry, Gary. But I could never be your girlfriend; I'm not sexually attracted to you and I probably never will be.” I became quite angry as I continued, “And one thing I really hate in a relationship, Gary, is lies. I divorced my husband because of his lies, do you remember I told you that? I thought I made it very clear during our long phone conversations - I hate lies and it's a deal-breaker for me.”

It was all coming out now that I had the chance to confront him. “The photos on your profile page weren’t even yours! I have goggled them. So, forgive me, Gary - but we cannot even be friends at this point. I wish you all the happiness in the world but I can’t do this. Au revoir!”

Two Months Post-date

It was about 11pm and I was going to bed exhausted after a long day at work, when I received a call from a withheld number. I accepted the call, the voice on the end of the line was feminine with a strong Indian accent: “Who am I talking to?” she demanded rudely.

I didn’t recognise her voice and thought she must have called the wrong number. “Excuse me, you’ve just called my phone and you’re asking for my name!? I should be the one asking you this question. Who are you?”

When she spoke again, I could sense her rage, even over the phone: “I am the wife of a guy you’re fucking.”

Shocked, I took a moment to reply, “Excuse me. I’m afraid I don’t do married men.” I worried briefly that she might be talking about Billy (more about that later), but wasn’t going to say anything about that to her – I had no idea who I was talking to.

Then, she suddenly started sobbing: “Gary Davis is my husband!!! I saw your picture on his laptop and you are way too beautiful to fuck him for free…” Another few quick sobs then she quickly added, her voice full of venom, “Are you a prostitute?”

“Gary is married?!” I asked gobsmacked.

“Yes, he is, Bitch!” she snarled at me. “And he has three children.” Her tone switched from deadly to pleading. She begged me tearfully, “Please, please, please tell me that you used a condom! I don’t want to catch AIDS.”

I had never felt so insulted in my life! Apparently, I had fucked a married, giant lying pig of a man, and was also a prostitute who had AIDS.

This was all too much to process, and this woman was seriously starting to annoy the hell out of me. “You’re right!” I declared proudly, “I am waaaaay too beautiful to have fucked your husband. In fact…” I added politely, determined to keep my composure despite the insults, “…it never happened. Your husband lied to me, I met him on a…”

She interrupted me, her voice now filled with genuine fear: “You used a condom, right? Tell me, please, please…Oh no, I have to go now…I can hear his car.”

I stayed on the phone, not quite believing what I was hearing. The last thing she said to me before hanging up was: “Please don’t tell him I called you,” she begged. “He will beat the shit out of me.”

I was furious – Gary was an even bigger liar than I had dared to imagine. This ugly man (both inside and out) had clung to me for ages by pretending that he was an entirely different person. So many lies and tricks just because he wanted to fuck me.

Now I was also frightened for this woman who was unfortunate enough to be married to him; he was a brute as well as a lying cheat.

The only thing I was grateful for was the fact that his wife hadn’t confronted me in my local pub to expose me. I would have fled London back to Paris immediately, with a one-way ticket and just the clothes on my back. I even would have left my collection of shoes behind, and everybody knows how much I love them.

Four Months Post-date

I received another call from a withheld number one Sunday morning, just before a catch-up with The Ladies. And guess who was calling? Well it was Gary, of course! I was filled with rage at the sound of his voice and I launched into a furious tirade – using his own wife’s words against him. He denied he was even married and suggested that it had been the wife of one of the many other men in my life! Le salaud - bastard!

It was only when I called him by his family name that he shut his mouth full of lies, then rudely hung up on me.

Next please!

PS: I never heard back from Gary’s wife but I still think about her sometimes. Her petrified voice echoed in my mind for a while. I felt useless, and to be completely honest, I was split between my anger at the whole situation and my compassion for her. I often try to reassure myself about it by telling myself that she was probably lying. But the terror in her voice...I mean, how can a relationship survive that sort of thing? Or even start? If what she said was true, why did she ever let him treat her like that? I found myself wondering about things I never had before. When did such a relationship begin to be dangerous? When do you raise the alarm? The first insult? The first guilt-trip? The first slap?

I sincerely hope that she has left Gary and she and her children are safe somewhere. Abuse in a relationship – whether physical or verbal – should never be tolerated. And nobody deserves such a life.